


Pound of Flesh

by aldonza



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Erik and the Girys actually give a fuck about each other, Angst, Blood and Injury, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Erik (Phantom of the Opera), Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Meg-Centric, No women die for anyone's manpain, Not Love Never Dies compliant, Platonic Relationships, Whump, but Erik almost dies for Meg's WomanPain, the only thing this has in common with LND is Squelch and the setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24213661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: Meg makes a bargain, but there are devastating consequences when Erik steps in.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Meg Giry, Madame Giry & Meg Giry, Meg Giry & Squelch
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22
Collections: Genuary 2021





	Pound of Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to spam the tags too much. But in a nutshell, the only thing this universe has in common with LND is the setting. We could call it an LND AU where Erik actually remembers what he learned from Phantom, Christine never decided to have a one-night stand with him, the Girys are not Like That, and the reason they went to America together wasn't for Erik's sake but the Girys' own.
> 
> I'm hoping to do a rewrite based on this premise some day, so this snippet takes place in that universe. I don't consider this a particularly intelligent plot, but I hope it's more logical than LND's trajectory. Hope you enjoy!

“Will you do it?” she asks, leveling her tongue.

There’s a gulp in her throat, but she pretends not to hear. Her blood hums, heart pounds, chest heaves. Her face betrays none of it, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn to a grim line. She does not feel the sweat on her palm (but she does) or the shiver in her nerves (try as she might). She fears nothing, not the dark, not these men, and least of all _him_.

The lamp hangs low, its light floating an orange cast on his face. Shadows upon a curled stache, square jaw, sagging creases. He drums his fingers on the desk between them, nails caked with dirt and what she hopes to be ink. When he opens his mouth, the odor of tobacco unfurls, thick and fresh.

“All right.”

And Meg almost sways. Her tiptoes catch her in time. She puts her hands on her hips, a false smirk dotting her lips. 

He slides a note from his drawer. With a dying pen, he makes it out to a _Mr. Erik Yvette,_ total sum of five-hundred dollars, from the desk of Mr. Hugo Trevors. 

“The rest,” Trevors says, “he can collect afterwards. Deal sound good to you, darling?”

Meg nods. “But I want the first five hundred now.”

Her accent is slipping up, she knows, but Trevors has made it clear he’s fond of it. He looks to the man behind her, a fellow with a face obscured by a brown leather cap. A bundle of cloth pokes her in the back. When Meg takes it, she feels the weight first- the texture of bills behind cloth- and touches the strings keeping it tied.

“You don’t trust me?” Trevors says, rising from his seat. Calm. No, cold.

And Meg stops. She holds the package to her chest. Then his fingers are on her chin, calloused thumb brushing soft skin.

“That’s more like it,” he tells her, “don’t forget our end of the deal, or-”

On her lip now. Bile in her throat, a shudder in her spine. Meg steps away. “I won’t.”

“You’re awful pretty, darling,” he says, “it’s going to get you far. But I ain’t a fool for a pretty face- go back on your word, and I’ll find you.”

He twists a golden lock behind her ear. “I don’t know what it’s like in the Old Country, but here- we always get our money back.”

“I’m not paying you in money,” she says, words almost slicing to a snap.

“Good. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours.”

He grins. 

And then holding her breath, Meg leaves his office. Head bowed, she keeps walking until the warehouse too is gone and she’s back on the open street. She gulps in fresh air. The money is in her hands, still more to come, and for that, Meg allows a smile- real this time. It will be a bright morning come dawn and the shame of the moment, the fear and nerves, would be little more than a blip of the past. The thought of returning does not entice her, the thought of Trevors’ hands on her waist, in her mouth, and perhaps more- it makes her blood run cold- but _he will never touch you again,_ she tells herself. Once she gives herself to him, he will never touch her again. 

No one will ever touch her after, she vows. It will only be one night, over before she can even process. Yes, like all things, even that night in the future will end. And mind made up, she heads home.

* * *

They do not celebrate. Meg sits at her mother’s feet, eyes free with tears as she clutches the Madame’s black skirt. But Maman will have none of it. Her cane comes down on the bundle again, smacking the message and the banknotes within.

“Maman, please!” Meg cries, “stop it- you don’t understand-”

“I understand perfectly, _Marguerite,”_ Maman snarls, “you went behind my back because you thought yourself clever. Then tell me, what will you do now!?”

“I was going to give you the money- and- and him- and we would go to the bank tomorrow.”

Maman is trembling, bones rattling with a silent fury Meg knows all too well. But if she does not speak now, Maman would have her shut up for good. 

“One thousand dollars, Maman! We can move out of here, we can build the park like you- like you and he said, and-”

“So a fancy house and a pretty dress? Are these things worth so much more than your body!?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Meg answers hotly, “you know that’s not what I meant! Why do you scold me when I was only thinking of you, of all of us!?”

“And how pray tell, will this help us!?”

“No more late nights sewing,” Meg says, “I know it strains your eyes and your joints, please, Maman- I was only helping! And Erik- he _hates_ his job, you can both start anew with this money- I-”

Maman pushes her hands away. “You stupid girl! You stupid, foolish girl! We don’t need this, Meg, we never have. I’ll tell you what will happen-”

Meg reaches for the bundle, and the cane sweeps it away. 

“-You’ll sleep with that wretch. And you’ll think it’s over, but it’s not, do you understand, Meg?”

“I’ll never even see him again!”

“What does it matter!? You will always remember what you’ve done. And so will he.”

“You can’t speak for me! I know what I’m doing-”

 _“I know you!_ Your dreams, your pride- you’’ll destroy yourself over this, Meg!”

Meg wipes her tears, a vehement disagreement on her tongue but she bites and holds. And then perhaps quelling her own rage, Maman wraps firm arms around her. Meg feels wetness atop her hair.

“Why do you cry, Maman?” she says, “please stop! I’ll go back to Trevors, I’ll tell him to take the money back- please, please stop-”

But Maman shakes her head.

“You think I am as foolish as you?” Maman tells her, a sigh at the end of her words. “You are not to set foot near him again.”

Abruptly, Maman lets go. And leaving Meg crouched, she takes the bundle into her own arms. Meg watches, still swallowing tears, and shakes her head.

“Maman, what more can I do? You call me a girl, say I will never be a woman until I learn the world’s ways, scold me for being a child- but when I try- when I try to be more, you do this!”

Maman rubs a sleeve across her eyes. And when the tears are gone, Meg sees her mother the way her peers once did- fearsome, severe, a storm wrapped in black and shawl. 

“Trevors does not see you as a woman,” Maman says, “you’re a _thing_ to him. Not even a doll.”

“I know that,” Meg whispers, “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Maman turns her back on Meg. “Stay here. I shall handle this.”

The cane moves. Her mother, an old woman, fierce in spirit but weaker in body. Nobody in the loan shark’s eyes. 

“Maman, don’t do this!” Meg is on her feet, stumbling towards Maman. “He’ll hurt you- I would never forgive myself-”

“I’m not going to Trevors.”

She does not need to say more. Meg already knows. Maman will go to the sideshow and pull Erik aside. And Erik, even more wrathful than her mother, already so stained and dirtied with blood, would not let this slide. Her mother’s temper, she can stand. His anger, she does not know. And worse yet, worse yet-

“He’ll kill Trevors!” Meg gasps. “Please, Maman no- no!”

But Maman only gives her a reprimanding glare. And then the door has closed. She recalls the bodies- years ago- the corpses at the Populaire. The Ghost’s doing, she remembers. Erik’s doing. A man she once so feared and hated.

And now, she does not know. Around him, Maman always acts like she owes a favor unpaid. The feeling is mutual, Meg knows. But with her- on the ship over, they had mistook him for her father- he is never cruel- here, they had mistook him for her husband more than once- sometimes cold- because of the way she looked at him?- and she, perhaps for a moment every now and then, forgets who he is, the things he’s done, that there is nothing he cannot and will not do.

But now she remembers. And it makes her ill. She has no affection for Trevors, the scent of his breath still creeping upon her skin. But she cannot imagine him with bloated lips, eyes glassed over as the breath leaves his throat. And his death will be on her head.

But it seems Maman would rather Trevors die than let him have a night with her.

She pulls at her hair, nearly tugging strands of yellow out. Is it worth a man’s life? She wants to yell, for a deal that _she_ had made? And did she not only offer what she did because they had nothing else? Did she not do this precisely so they would never need to scrape or- heaven forbid- kill or rob? 

But there is no stopping Maman now. And all Meg can do is wait and pray.

* * *

An hour past midnight, Meg hops to her feet, startled by a fist against wood, knuckles hammering at their door. _Maman is back._ She is by the door before she even wants to move. Meg touches the knob, twists, and pulls.

“Meg,” Maman says, rushing in, the cane a third leg by her side, “grab a towel. Now.”

Then Meg frowns. When Mama walks past her, she sees the red on her hands, wet and too dark to be paint.

“Maman!” Meg crosses her path. “What happened? Your hands-”

“It’s not mine.”

Maman takes her aside, clearing a path for the men behind. Her palms leave spots of blood on Meg’s shoulder. But Meg is too distracted to take notice, her eyes drawn to the hulk of a man staggering through the door. She knows him-Mr. Squelch the strongest man on Earth- from the sideshow.

_Miss Giry, he’d say with a sheepish grin, how do you do?_

But Squelch does not see her now. And Meg no longer sees him. She only sees the man slumped against him, a limp arm draped across his shoulder. Crimson seeps into Squelch’s shirt.

“Erik,” she whispers, “Maman, what happened?”

And all Maman does is say again, “Towel. Now.”

Meg obeys now. She snaps her eyes away and runs to the washroom, about to retch if time affords.

* * *

When Meg returns, a thick towel in hand, she sees the back of Squelch’s broad frame. When he moves aside, Maman comes into view. 

“Meg, hurry!”

And Meg squeezes between them, all three gathered by the couch. Maman takes the towel and presses it to Erik’s side. Squelch has laid him flat, peeled his dark coat away. Meg watches the labored rise and fall of his chest, then the blood on his abdomen, so much gathering that the white of his shirt fades away. There is a bandage on his thigh, what was once his cravat, wrapped like a tourniquet around black fabric. Blood on his shoulder, coming from a cut behind cotton, so deep Meg sees bone.

“Summon a doctor,” Maman tells- commands- the strongman.

He casts Erik a glance. Then he leaves, a gentle pat on Meg’s shoulder as he steps out. 

Her gaze falls on Erik’s face, the only part of him left undamaged. The wig is still in place, barely a strand amiss. A splotch of red touches the mask, a dash of blood against white. It is the only color she can see, the uncovered half ashen and ill, both eyes shut tight. 

“Did- did Trevors do this?” Meg asks, voice smaller than she intended.

Maman nods, sweat beading at her brow.

“Does he live?”

The stench of copper is strong, enough to make her forget the odor of smoke. 

“Trevors is alive.” And to herself, Maman mumbles, “I cannot say the same for Erik.”

Meg pretends not to hear. Her brain spins, a little ballerina twirling into nothing. “How? Maman, how did this happen? Did he just march into the warehouse, didn’t you know Trevors has men?”

She is turning it on them now, on Maman and Erik. Perhaps because she is confused, spiteful, guilty-- did she not tell Maman not to act? Did she not hope Erik would stay out of this affair?

“How much can you handle, Meg?” Maman sighs, resigned as she meets Meg’s gaze with bloodshot eyes. “Do you want to know the deal he made with Trevors? Should I describe what it was like to watch them tie him down? How it felt to watch a man gagged and stabbed? And able to do nothing at all? Because I allowed this agreement?”

Maman is lying. Meg hopes she is. But Maman does not lie, not to her, not anymore. Meg remembers Trevors’ leering gaze, his fingers cupping her chin. And now she sees him doing the same to Erik, a man- who any other day- could kill him with a snap of wrist. It makes her feel worse somehow, even sicklier than before. Her next question is simpler, a singular _why?_

But Maman answers before she asks. “Your debt is paid, Meg. Mr. Trevors wants nothing more to do with you.”

The deal, whatever it was. “What did Erik offer?” 

“A pound of flesh.”

Maman is not lying. And Meg breaks, weeping into her mother’s shoulder.

* * *

Maman did not tell her the whole tale. When Squelch returns, the doctor cuts open Erik’s clothes and tends to the worst of him. Madame Giry stays by his side, but Meg cannot stomach the sight. And Squelch follows her out to the excuse of a balcony.

The babe downstairs is crying. So loud, she’d once thought. Now any noise is no noise at all.

“Are you alright, Miss Giry?” Squelch asks, a brute and gentleman all at once.

She had once hated him too. But now she’s glad he’s here, if only for someone to talk to who was not her mother. And she’s known for some time now, how weak he is when it comes to her. The strongest man in the world, brought to his knees by a petite ballerina.

“When Erik wakes up,” he tells her, “I’ll give him a real good talking-to. He’s always making you cry.”

Meg is about to say she was not crying over Erik. Not completely at least. Then she remembers crying in front of Squelch once before, when she thought Erik had drowned at the pier. He’d jumped in to pull Miss Fleck out (was that the woman’s name?) or some child-- it felt like so long ago though it was a only a year, two at most. All she really remembers is the barker trying to blame Erik for the incident. Then Meg had stepped in and punched the man in the jaw.

She’d cried again, she remembered- though in her memory, she hadn’t cried then and if she had, they were only tears of anger- back when Robert (or rather, Squelch) and Erik had not seen eye to eye. He’d beaten Erik black and blue for some petty thing- though he’d been nowhere near as bad off as he was now- and she’d attacked with as many colorful insults as she could. Her English had not been too good back then.

And Meg sniffs now. “What happened, Mr. Squelch?”

He probably wants to lie. But he doesn’t.

And she learns Trevors hadn’t wanted to release her from their bargain. But Erik and the Madame had insisted, until Trevors tried to turn them away with an offer no man would accept. A pound of flesh, and Miss Giry goes free. Erik accepted. But Trevors never got to carve out an entire pound from his body.

Squelch and her mother had begged on their knees, pleaded for him to stop. Erik would die otherwise. And perhaps deciding he’d done enough to this man, Trevors accepted the _payment_ as it stood. Erik’s blood and the very five-hundred he’d given Meg.

“Did he see his face?” Meg asks then, feeling rather lightheaded, “Erik would hate that even more.”

“No,” Squelch says, “he was more interested in cutting up- everywhere else.”

Meg rubs the corner of her eye. “It’s my fault. If it wasn’t for me, you and Maman, and Erik-”

It should have been her. The only one to be hurt should have been her. Maman- proud, tall Maman- should never have had to grovel before a man like Trevors. Squelch should never have had to submit to a man he could have broken in half. And Erik would not be lying in his own blood, cut to pieces by a common criminal leagues below himself. All for nothing in the end.

And when those realizations strike, Meg covers her face with trembling hands. She does not want to cry, but the growing guilt weighs her down. And the worst part is, she knows none of them will begrudge her a single thing.

“It’s not your fault, Miss Giry,” Squelch says, an awkward hand coming to rest on her head. “Erik’s crazy, thought you knew that.”

And then he smiles, or at least tries.

* * *

Squelch takes his leave eventually. And then Meg is alone with Maman again. Without Squelch, they have no means of moving Erik to his room. But Maman thinks it best to leave him on the couch, at least until he wakes. 

Maman has placed a blanket over him, a patched quilt that does its best to hide the telltale gauze beneath. Thick bandages wind around his arm, crossing to his shoulder and bending around the torso. Meg glimpses old scars- of which there are many- but she does not think it’s her place to look.

The mask rests on the ground, his black hair gone. Now Meg only sees what the rest of his customers see, half a handsome face- if not a little grim- and twisted veins climbing up his scalp like roots, misshapen flesh clinging to the other side like a knotted mask. It used to bother her, she’s sure, it used to make her queasy and look away. For a while, she remembers- somewhat regretfully- she’d been glad he chose to keep the mask on at their abode. 

She does not know if she’s accepted it, but she’s grown accustomed to it. And it’s hardly a concern now, not when she’s more anxious about the fever on his brow and the severity of his wounds. Wounds acquired for her sake. 

Meg winces, touching a wet cloth to his forehead. “Maman yelled at me tonight. But _I_ was not the one to offer a pound of body. It’s hardly fair, Erik.”

His lashes flutter and she half expects him to awake. But no such luck. 

“Why did you do it?” she says, sinking to the floor beside him, “you’re not my father, my brother, my lover- you’re hardly even my friend. I’m nothing to you.”

The doctor said it would take weeks for Erik to recover from his injuries, certainly a month before he could work again. His income from the sideshow would be gone then, and perhaps they would replace him with someone else. Her and Maman, one of them would not be able to work then, for the other would have to stay and care for Erik. Or rather, she could not bring herself to leave him alone in this state.

If anything, they were worse off than before. 

Perhaps she should not have told Maman. It would have been easier, nobler to keep silent and uphold her deal with Trevors. Certainly she could stand a night with him. And they would have their money. 

But she knows what Maman said to be true-- she would not have been able to forget it, not been able to forgive herself nor Trevors. And however much it hurt that one night, it would hurt her for the rest of her days.

“He charged the Opera much more than you charged Trevors.”

She starts. Maman had come up behind her, a gentle hand rubbing Meg’s backside. And Meg hangs her head.

“Maman, I’m sorry.”

“No, dear. I- we all overreacted.” Maman checks Erik’s brow and frowns, the fever still too high for her liking. “He told me, men like Trevors, they take and they take, even when you think you’ve given all you could, he would demand more. If we failed to stop it here, they would only try to hurt you more.”

“And how would he know?” Meg demands.

“I suppose, once, he was in the same position as you,” Maman remarks, a hint of sorrow on her tongue, “he told me he gave in until he had nothing left. When you have nothing left, you are capable of terrible things. And he said- ‘if I do not return, Madame, tell little Meg- do not be like me.’”

Meg does not say a word. She leans against Maman’s shoulder and lets her mother kiss her head. 

“I want to stay out here tonight,” she tells Maman, “with him.”

Maman does not protest.

“Tonight, Meg,” Maman says, “I don’t want you to remember the tears or the blood. I want you to remember the people who love you instead. So I-we- beg you, never think yourself worth any less.”

Meg lets the words burn in. She hugs her mother and against Maman’s bosom, feels tears run once more. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and feel free to comment/kudos!
> 
> Originally planned to let Erik and Meg have at least one conversation, but realized it might be more interesting if Erik stayed unconscious this whole fic and if his characterization depended on everyone else's filter of him. Okay, rambling over!


End file.
